


The Anatomy Class

by MissJaawn



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Teachers, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Canon Divergence - The Hounds of Baskerville, Happy Ending, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, PTSD John, Professor John Watson, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-19 02:07:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29743353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissJaawn/pseuds/MissJaawn
Summary: John Watson is a former army doctor who became an anatomy professor at St Barth University.Sherlock Holmes is a former drug addict who works as a teaching assistant.They will cross path at the University, but their meeting will lead them even further.As to know if this means they are going straight into a wall, taking shortcuts ou find the right way, well, who knows?Anything's possible with these two!
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 13
Kudos: 13





	1. PRELUDE

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Leçon d'anatomie](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29049702) by [MissJaawn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissJaawn/pseuds/MissJaawn). 



> Soooo.  
> There we are.  
> My first fic ever.
> 
> Big big thank you to my cousin and wonderful beta, who makes me discover Sherlock and initiated me to the fantastic world of fanfics. I would not be there without you!
> 
> The rating might evolve as the story goes. I'll try to post a chapter a week, but hey, I'm not english, so I must translate each chapter and well... can't make any promises!
> 
> Several TW will come, so please mind the tags.
> 
> And please be nice, as I say, english is NOT my language...but please correct me if necessary ;)
> 
> I hope you'll have as much fun as I had writing this indulgent thing !!

Professor Watson had changed.

At least, so claimed his medical colleagues, with whom he had shared years of study... and memorable evenings. The man, who was then called Three-Continents-Watson for his ability to drink alcohol from all over the world without seeming to be affected (and to a lesser extent for his success with women),now refused to go-out, barely reacted to the smiles from his female students, and only seemed to tolerate the presence of his former co-student, Mike Stamford. It was also rumoured that Watson had got his job through Stamford, who reportedly recognised him while the doctor was begging for money on the street. Neither of the two had bothered to deny this version, so the mystery of the professor's sudden arrival remained.

Attracted by the aura of this strange man, some of the pupils had tried to sympathize with him, but although he remained cordial, Professor Watson made it clear to them that he had no desire for their company. He arrived at the same time every morning, set like clockwork, did his lectures, had lunch with Dr. Stamford, Dean of the Faculty of Medicine, worked most of the afternoon, gave his last lesson of the day, and at six o'clock on the dot, closed the door of his classroom, and left, leaning on the cane which he never let go of.

If the teacher had been incompetent as well as discreet, interest in his life would have quickly dissipated. But John Watson had been a doctor in the army, from which he had returned wounded, and that transpired.  
No one was sure what war he had fought, what fronts he had had to fight on, what horrors he had seen; but his steel-blue eyes were constantly veiled, as if haunted by things he never spoke of. Even the way he gave his lecture was imbued with his own experience, without him seeming to realise it. He insisted on certain particular points of the course, in a voice made grave by the importance of the message he was trying to convey; he pushed his students to master the anatomy of the human body on their fingertips; and when some seemed not to take his teaching too seriously, he would enter into a cold rage that imposed a respectful silence in the amphitheatre. John Watson didn't take medicine lightly, and that said a lot about what he had been through.

His class soon became one of the most popular, and many of the students admired him immeasurably. In just under four months, he had earned the respect of all his students, much to the chagrin of some of his colleagues.

Without suspecting a thing, John Watson had become the main topic of conversation among the other teachers. Professor of toxicology Anderson, who was particularly jealous, did not hesitate to gossip and spread rumours about him, helped in this by the complicit silence of Professor Donovan.

"With the success he has, I don't even understand why he doesn't enjoy it more! He could get half of his students!"

"And not just the girls..."

"Whatever, you know what I mean! From what I’ve heard, he didn't mind at the time! So what, no one's good enough for him anymore?"

"We were students, it was a different time. And people change."

"Not that much. Mind you, maybe the war has taken away some of his abilities, and made him..."

"What?"

"Well, you know, uh..."

Anderson had a silly laugh. His colleague Sally Donovan, who taught histology, had an understanding grin, but fell silent. Only Mike Stamford, Dean of the faculty, dared to complete with a soft but firm voice.

"Impotent? Even if that were the case, I don't see what's so funny about it. Firstly, it must not be easy, especially after what he has had to go through. Secondly, it's certainly not for his colleagues to make fun of him, and finally...".

Stamford never finished his sentence.

"And finally, Mike, I will never understand your patience with Anderson's congenital cretinism. Or is it precisely because Anderson is impotent that you feel sorry for him? I won't bother asking your wife, Anderson, I'm not sure what she'll say. I think it's been a long time since she has been able to assess the quality of your manly strength, and the fact that you spent the holidays alone is not a good sign. Well, alone... without your wife, in any case. Professor Donovan may be able to answer me, in fact. "

The tirade, delivered at full speed by a sharp voice, came from the mouth of a teaching assistant. Sherlock Holmes was not strictly speaking a student, but he wanted to attend certain lectures, and sometimes needed fresh bodies for scientific experiments. The others were far too frightened of this strange man to hold him to account, and being a brilliant man, he had negotiated the position of TA without too much difficulty in exchange for the freedom to do as he pleased in the corridors of the medical school. He also seemed to have his own entrance to the hospital to which the faculty was attached, and some interns swore they had seen him spend whole nights in the morgue.

"Sherlock."

Mike Stamford sighed, stood up, grabbed the TA by the arm and led him out of the room where Anderson, suffocated with rage, tried to come to his senses to respond.

"You're not making this easy for me, Sherlock."

"I'm not trying to do you any favours, Mike. "

Mike Stamford was infinitely patient, but Sherlock's sulky tone finally pushed him into his corner.

"Sherlock, damn it, I can't cover for you all the time, especially if you alienate all the teachers! Nobody wants to work with you any more!"

"I don't care, I can work alone."

"You know that's forbidden by the University rules. You are not a professor, so you need a supervisor to prepare your tutorials. "

Sherlock looked up to the skies.

"To hell with the rules, Mike! I'm more competent than all those teachers put together! Not to mention the fact that most teachers often leave me alone to deal with these damn tutorials!"

"Maybe, but that's not how it works. And if you want to keep having access to classes, or to the morgue, you have to obey, Sherlock. "

The Dean sighed.

"I would have taken you to work with me, but my schedule is already set until the end of the year. However, Professor Watson does not yet have a tutorial instructor, and given the growing success of his course, he will probably need help."

"John Watson? The war doctor with the cane?"

"The very same. Any problem with that?"

"No problem at all. He looks as uninteresting as his cane."

"I, what? What do you mean by that?"

"His cane. He clearly doesn't need it, it's a psychosomatic claudication, due to his post-traumatic stress. It's nothing more than very commonplace."

"Sherlock, Professor Watson has been on the front line, and I don't think that part of his life has been a picnic. Show him some respect, if you can."

It was the young man's turn to sigh.

"I suppose that's part of the societal conventions to be respected? Be a nice TA and help the poor injured teacher who is not really injured. Big joke. Waste of time."

"Sherlock. "

The Dean's tone was dry and unapologetic. He must have liked the professor in question. Sherlock had no choice anyway: if he wanted to keep his college and morgue entrances, he would have to obey Mike, and work with this professor.

"All right. I'll go and see him. It can't be worse than with the couple of clowns anyway."

"The clown couple?"

Sherlock smiled, and pointed to the break room they'd just left. The Dean barely held back a smile, and scolded the young scientist, but without fooling him.

"Tomorrow you go to Professor Watson and tell him that you have come from me. "

Sherlock nodded, then took his leave.

He did not know the professor yet, as he had not had the opportunity to meet him, but he was under no illusions. Nobody here was really worthy of interest. He tolerated Mike because his indulgence had allowed him to enter the faculty; he was courteous to Molly Hooper, the medical examiner, because she guaranteed him access to the morgue; but apart from these two people, Sherlock Holmes had neither the desire nor the need to associate with anyone else.


	2. FIRST MEETING

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ok so, the title is pretty self-explanatory... Our boys finally meet !

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW : mention of suicide attempt

The next day Sherlock reluctantly went to Professor Watson's office. He was determined to make it clear from the outset that he did not need the professor, and would only come to work with him at the Dean's request.

As he was walking briskly down the corridor leading to the office assigned to the anatomy professor, he was jostled by a young student, visibly upset. Great. Another student in the middle of an anxiety attack who was about to sob in the bathroom. The young scientist quickly scanned the silhouette that walked in front of him : hesitant steps, bent shoulders, hands that tensed at times on the thighs. He corrected his judgment: it was more than stress, there was fear in the young man's attitude. Sherlock was about to erase it from his memory - nothing interesting here - when he realised that the student was heading in the same direction as he was. Great. He was going to have to be patient, too.

The student stopped in front of Professor Watson's office and hesitated for a few seconds before knocking. Better and better. Sherlock rolled his eyes. At this rate he was in danger of losing precious minutes, and he knew for a fact that fresh bodies would be arriving in the morgue in fifteen minutes. His time was precious, this student had better not wasting any more of it.

"Come in!"

A weary but warm voice interrupted the TA's internal monologue. By the time he came back to reality, the student had entered the office and closed the door behind him, leaving him alone in the corridor, chafing. About ten minutes passed, during which Sherlock conscientiously cursed Mike Stamford, the faculty rules and the unknown student. When he couldn't stand it any longer, he knocked on the door and entered without waiting for an answer.

The scene inside was disconcerting. The student was sitting in an armchair in front of the teacher's desk, crying his eyes out. The teacher was standing about a meter away, his hands clenched on his cane, exuding a mixture of empathy for the student and anger towards... someone?

Anger which was quickly redirected towards the intruder, according to the virulent look the teacher gave him when he entered.

"I don't think I gave you permission to enter."

It took way more to destabilise Sherlock Holmes.

"Dean Stamford send me, I don't have all morning, and I'm - "

"Apparently convinced that the rules do not apply to you. You can see that I’m busy, come back in the afternoon, I am here until 6 pm after my last class. "

And with these words, the teacher with the cane stiffened his jaw and raised his chin slightly, as if to challenge Sherlock to answer him. Sherlock stood still, gawking. It was the first time that one of his referees didn't let himself be destabilised by his aplomb, and he had to admit that he liked it. He decided to test his future colleague more.

Completely changing his attitude, he put a smile on his lips and softened his look, while getting closer to the teacher.

"Professor Watson, I absolutely must - "

Usually, it only takes a few seconds for the target of his demonstrations of charm to let himself be seduced and lower his guard. 

"I thought I made it clear, sir..."

"Holmes. Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock gave him a suave smile. The teacher stiffened further.

"Mr. Holmes, please get out of my office, this is absolutely not the time, I do hate to repeat myself. Come back to see me this evening, between five and six o'clock. "

The dark look he gave Sherlock left him in no doubt that his charms had clearly not worked. Curious. Unusual. Interesting.

As Sherlock left the professor's office, he had to admit that not only was John Watson not so boring after all, but that he might even prove worthy of interest. He was looking forward to the end of the day.

**************************

From the outside, John Watson was a simple man. He had been brought up by parents like thousands of others in England, not explicitly poor, but not yet middle class, pushing their children to raise themselves socially wherever possible. An intelligent and caring child, he therefore became a doctor.

John Watson was a simple man, as his friends in the faculty liked to tell him. A pint of beer in his hand, a pretty girl under his arm, and he was satisfied. John took no offence, and acknowledged the facts himself. After all, what was the harm in settling for the simple pleasures of life?

John Watson was a simple man. He was one of those people who let himself be carried along by the events of life, without trying to plan anything. An opportunity had arisen to join the army, and quite naturally, John took it. After all, it paid well for his education, and allowed him to help his family financially. He didn't mind.

John Watson was anything but a simple man, and the war had literally and figuratively exploded his shell as an ordinary man. As a doctor, Captain Watson had been confronted with the deaths of several of his comrades, and had himself come close several times under the skies of Afghanistan. And contrary to what his parents and his friends at the university had believed, these experiences did not frighten John Watson. No, on the contrary, it had exhilarated him. He had felt more alive than ever.

John Watson was anything but a simple man. Afghanistan had opened doors in him that he did not suspect, doors that he had not managed to close, despite his best efforts. It would have been easier for him: his parents would not have disowned him, and he could have stayed longer in his regiment if he had remained the simple man that everyone knew. But John Watson was whole and incapable of lying.

So there, he was not a simple man. The combined effect of these realisations, the rejection of his loved ones, the darkness he had felt inside him since his return to London, had led him to commit the irreparable. He had not particularly premeditated his gesture, but after yet another night of nightmares, and yet another morning of contemplating the emptiness of his life, he had gotten up, taken his cane and his service pistol - a Sig-Sauer that he had kept without permission - and gone for a walk. That July morning he had stopped at the top of the Millennium Bridge, and the wind rising from the Thames had seemed to call him.

In the end, it turned out that it wasn't the void that whispered his name, but his former co-intern Mike Stamford. They had exchanged a few words, John had mentioned his lack of occupation, and Mike had told him about a position at their former faculty. Since that day, the gun had been safely stored in his bedroom dresser drawer, and the two men shared lunch, first in the faculty park, and since September and the start of the new school year, in each other's offices.

The trauma of Afghanistan was still there, but John had locked it deep inside him. He may not have been a simple man, but he could present a smooth front to the world. And from the start of the new school year, to ensure that his new façade was not broken through, he set out to maintain a distance from all his new relationships, colleagues and students alike: without personal relationships, there was no risk of being hurt or rejected.

A few months had passed since then, with nothing notable happening: an apparently growing number of students were interested in his classes, and Mike continued to visit him daily. It didn't matter. The new year arrived, John spent the night alone, as usual, and waited patiently for classes to resume.

But in the space of one morning, on a clear January morning, two peculiar things happened.

Shortly after the start of the September school year, John had by chance witnessed a scene of harassment towards one of his students, Henry Knight. True to his decision, he had not intervened, but he could not help but keep a discreet eye on the student from that moment on. The student must have sensed a certain concern in the teacher's attitude, as he seemed more confident in his lessons, and had come to talk to him several times during his office hours; but that was as far as it went.

However, on that Friday morning in January, Henry came in his office, visibly upset, and collapsed in a chair, unable to express himself. John had felt his smooth shell crack, and had promised himself that he would do everything he could to help the student. He let him cry for a while and then, when he felt the sobs fade, he moved slightly closer to his student.

"Henry... Henry, you don't have to tell me everything, but I'm here for you, okay? Take all the time you need. I don't have a class this morning, I just have to correct some works, but you can stay here, okay?"

The pupil, still out of breath from his tearful fit, nodded his head, his still wet eyes shining with gratitude. John Watson had smiled, gently, as one smiles at a child who calms down after a violent fall.

"I - the others - I.... My father, you know..."

John knew. He had heard the remarks, the whispers, the suspicions. Henry Knight had witnessed the death of his father. The enquiry had concluded that it was suicide, the man having been found hanged. Henry had obvious after-effects, including a rather violent anxiety attack on the day when they were told about the different injuries caused by different types of hanging. This episode, far from winning him the sympathy of his comrades, had contributed to sealing his reputation as a "weird guy", and Henry had since been subjected to regular harassment: mockery, isolation and insults. The fact that he was an excellent student did not help, as the jealousy of his stalkers fuelled their need to humiliate him.

"I know. You don't have to explain it to me, Henry."

"Yes, I do! My father - my father isn't - didn't, I'm sure you understand, the lesions don't stick! And nobody believes me! Nobody, not even Professor Frankland! He... called me crazy, and the others - they - he encouraged them - and ... "

Henry burst into tears. John tensed up. Professor Frankland was head of the faculty's chemistry lab, and taught mainly in the first year. John didn't know him at all, but he couldn't condone such behaviour from a professor.

It was at this very moment that the second thing happened. 

The door of his office opened suddenly, and a man entered without further ado. After the shock of the surprise came the shock of the vision. This new visitor was simply beautiful. Tall, Greek marble-like pale skin, curly hair with an eye-catching lustre, eyes wavering between grey, green and blue... John Watson felt another of the doors he had carefully locked open in him. It was too much for him, too much in one morning. He couldn't handle it all, the priority was to help Henry.

He used his anger towards Frankland and directed it towards the stranger. And who did he think he was to do that in the first place?

"I don't think I gave you permission to enter."

If he was hoping for an apology, he was sorry for his expense. The stranger answered in an impatient, almost insolent tone.

"Dr. Stamford send me, I don't have all morning, and I'm -"

"Apparently convinced that the rules do not apply to you. You can see that I’m busy, come back in the afternoon, I am here until 6 pm after my last class."

"Professor Watson, I must absolutely - "

John Watson was positively furious. The nerve of this man! He must have been the teaching assistant Stamford told him about... If he was, the man promised to be quite an act to manage. But the professor was not a man to be dominated, let alone falsely seduced, no matter how beautiful this Apollo was.

"I thought I had made myself clear, sir..."

"Holmes. Sherlock Holmes. "

"Mr. Holmes, please get out of my office, this is absolutely not the time, I do hate to repeat myself. Come back to see me this evening, between five and six o'clock. "

To John's great relief, the TA finally obeyed. He let out a sigh. It was a trying day, and it wasn't even noon! He put the image of Sherlock Holmes out of his mind and turned to Henry.  
Henry had taken advantage of the interruption to calm down and had dried his tears.

"I - I have to go, I have a class in five minutes. Thank you, Professor Watson, and, sorry, sorry for - uh - I'm sorry for..."

"Henry, I should apologize, not you. You are welcome here at any time, is that clear? And I'll have a word with Professor Frankland about you."

"Oh no, that - that's not necessary, really, I assure you, I -."

Henry seemed more frightened than relieved at the prospect, so John didn't insist.

"All right, if you don't want to. But Henry, I insist, never hesitate to come and see me. My door is open to you."

The young student shyly smiled, thanked him again, and left. John let himself fall into his chair. His leg was killing him, and he still had to face his new TA. His thoughts turned to the oddball Sherlock Holmes. He had heard a lot of rumours about him, and if half of them were true, he was going to have to face more incongruous scenes than the one this morning.

John surprised himself by smiling. This assistant promised to be quite a challenge to handle, but he had to admit that he liked it; and he looked forward to the end of the day.


	3. FIRST TUTORIAL

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So first thing first : THANK YOU!  
> We are only two chapters in and I already had much more kudos and sweet, sweet comments that I expected.  
> You wonderful readers are way too nice with me, and it really encourages me, so thanks. Really.
> 
> Truly hope that you will like this new chapter! :)

A week later, Sherlock still didn't know what to think of Professor Watson.

The scientist was used to getting what he wanted from other professors, whether by his charm or his brittle tone; but John Watson didn't seem to be sensitive to either of his two usual weapons. Their first contact had shown him a teacher who would not be fooled and their subsequent meetings had been of the same kind. Their exchanges were lively but stimulating, interesting even, and for once, not at all bellicose. On the contrary, John Watson had described some of his ideas as "remarkable" and "brilliant", which had strangely touched Sherlock.

His new referent had been keen not only to organise the tutorials with him, but also to be present at Sherlock's first, which had almost destabilised him. Usually, the teachers used the time freed up by the tutorial to go about their various occupations ; be it research, writing their thesis, or whatever pompous names they gave to their useless work. What was the point of having a teaching assistant if they wanted to attend said tutorials?

Professor Watson could not doubt Sherlock's abilities, not after their preparation sessions. They had spent every afternoon of the previous week in the teacher's office, reviewing the exercises for the students. John wanted to emphasise some of the more advanced techniques of non-hospital rescue; Sherlock was more interested in the post-mortem analysis of certain body parts.

To his own surprise, he had complied with the teacher's decision.

His second surprise was that Professor Watson wanted to be present at the tutorial.

The third surprise was his own behaviour, as well as the doctor’s, at the tutorial.

Sherlock was not known for his patience, and if there were two things he couldn't stand, it was to be asked stupid questions he had to answer, and repeating the same thing over and over; which, unfortunately, was the daily lot of any teacher. When he had accepted the position of teaching assistant, he had hoped that it would give him A/ the opportunity to meet other minds as brilliant as his own, and B/ the chance to test some of his theories on real bodies.

In the end, the rules of the faculty were far too strict for him to engage in interesting experiments, and the overwhelming majority of the students had turned out to be idiots, the small remaining percentage being complete morons. So these tutorial sessions were a real ordeal for Sherlock, and he counted every painful minute of it. But for the first time since he had started the tutorials, he was almost curious to see how the session would go. The preparation had gone surprisingly well, and Sherlock had to admit that he had enjoyed working with Professor Watson. He was obviously more than competent, but unlike the others, he didn't seem to take any pride in it. He also had a sense of repartee that amused Sherlock. Sherlock had witnessed a small scene between Anderson and Watson in which the toxicology professor had been blown without even understanding what was happening to him, which made the scientist very happy.

On this Tuesday afternoon, Sherlock was on his way to his first tutorial shared with Professor Watson. The lungs and all the injuries related to this organ were the main subject of study, so several trunks had been placed in the room. From the corridor, Sherlock could smell the familiar smell of formaldehyde, and smiled. He was in his element. He entered quickly, without a glance at the corpses, and set up his things on the desk. As he walked towards the trunk closest to him, he noticed Professor Watson's presence. He was sitting at the back of the amphitheatre and seemed to be grading papers.

"Professor Watson. "

"Mr Holmes. "

Since their first meeting, John Watson had stubbornly called him Mr Holmes, unlike the other teachers. Sherlock did not particularly like to be called by his surname, but strangely enough he had not dared to correct the doctor. He felt that the name was a sign of respect on the part of the professor; and his name seemed almost acceptable in his mouth. Almost.

There was no time for further discussion as the students entered the room and settled into a hubbub that irritated Sherlock. Before he could express his annoyance, Professor Watson stood up and slowly walked forward with his cane, walking all the way from the back of the amphitheatre to the blackboard. When he finally stopped, just beside Sherlock, the room was silent, and the students' attention was focused on the teacher.

"Mr. Holmes is going to give you the booklets of the day. You will form groups of 6, and each group will work on a trunk. We have three hours today, and the subject is a bit more complex than usually. "

He stopped, scanned the room, and seeing that no one was saying a word, he went on.

"You know how I work. You can exchange as much as you want, but in a respectable volume of noise. There are no silly questions, and Mr Holmes and I are at your disposal for any doubt you may have. The aim of the tutorial is not to finish the exercises in record time, but to fully understand and master the rescue techniques we are dealing with today. "

Sherlock was impressed by the doctor's grip on the class. Even he could never get their attention to this extend.

"Mr. Holmes, whenever you're ready."

There was laughter, and Sherlock realised that he had stood still, just as captivated as the students by John, when he should have been handing out the booklets. He blushed, and hastened to obey.

The first two hours of the tutorial went by without any noticeable incident. Sherlock spent most of his time observing the teacher. The man was fascinating, there was no other word for it. How could such an ordinary looking man have such a hold on the class? John was stern, and didn't give the pupils the opportunity to abuse him, but he was infinitely patient with them and their stupid questions. He never seemed to find their remarks silly, even when they were made for the third time in an hour. He explained otherwise, sought out his words, showed, pointed, argued, gave examples, again and again, without ever seeming to tire of it. Really, it was incomprehensible. But fascinating.

"Only half an hour left before the end, if you still have questions, it's now or never! "

Sherlock looked at his watch in amazement. The tutorial had gone by at breakneck speed!

"Mr Holmes, please? "

Sherlock recognised the student as the shy young man he had met on his first day in Professor Watson's office. He hadn't bothered to remember his first name - a completely useless knowledge - and had classified him as a good-for-nothing idiot. Sherlock was more than willing to ignore him but, sensing John's gaze on him, he turned to the student.

"Yes? "

The student asked him a question which - he had to admit - was not so stupid, but had the misfortune of having been asked a few minutes earlier by another student. Sherlock felt his gauge of patience suddenly empty, and could not help but launch in one of the hurtful diatribes he had the secret of. As he spoke, the student seemed to whiten, and shrivelled a little more on the spot.

The ensuing deathly silence first delighted Sherlock, before worrying him. This silence was different from the one he usually got. The students didn't seem to be afraid of him, but afraid for him. He turned slowly and read something in his colleague's face that looked like anger. The impression was fleeting, as the teacher turned to the student and addressed him :

"This, Henry, is a typical example of the response you will get when you are in the field or in the middle of an operation in the O.R. In a crisis situation, you have to realise that firstly, people often get to the point, and don't bother with politeness, and secondly, they will rarely have the patience to repeat what you have to do. You are all future surgeons, you will have the lives of many patients in your hands, and a hesitation of a few seconds can mean life or death in some cases. "

The students were hanging on the teacher's lips, and nobody seemed to care about Sherlock, who could contemplate his colleague at leisure. His blue eyes sparkled as never before, and a slight reddening had come to colour his cheeks. Sherlock read a multitude of emotions in him, anger - probably at him, but why? - passion - he really had to attend one of these classes - empathy - towards the student, this Henry, he was almost protective, strange - how on earth did this man manage not to explode with so many feelings inside him?

"It is therefore important that you listen and take note when information is communicated to you, which is, I am sure, the message that Mr Holmes wanted you to get across."

Sherlock came out of his trance, and took his colleague's hidden reprimand as a slap. The impression of having disappointed Dr. Watson enveloped him, and he felt guilty, like a kid aware of his faults. Never before had he felt this way with other teachers.

"However, as I said, the purpose of this tutorial is to make you understand and learn the techniques, so you have the right to make mistakes here. "

Sherlock looked up, and saw Professor Watson's softened gaze, so furtive that he thought he had dreamt it.

"So don't worry, Henry, if things were not clear to you, you were right to ask that question. And I think your classmates are relieved that you dared to ask. "

The student breathed a sigh of relief.

"Thank you Professor Watson. And... er... thank you Mr Holmes, I suppose? "

Henry smiled shyly at him, and Sherlock held back a surprized gasp. It was the first time a student thanked him. He could only stammer out a meaningless sequence of words, which Henry must have taken as a sign that the crisis was over, as he smiled at him a second time and returned to his exercises.

The tutorial ended, and the students left the classroom one by one, all thanking Professor Watson.

When they were finally alone in the room, the silence became strangely tense and Sherlock realised that for once in his life he was unable to predict how the person in front of him would behave. If he wasn't so unsettled, he would have found it fascinating.

"Mr. Holmes. "

"Sherlock. "

"Excuse me? "

" Everybody calls me Sherlock... I, you... it'll be easier that way. "

" Very good. Sherlock..."

The teacher stood up straight, with part of his weight resting on his cane. His gaze stared at Sherlock, but not aggressively.

"I don't know how you used to work with my colleagues, but I am in favour of more... tact in the answers we give to our students. "

"I understand, Professor Watson. "

" Call me John. Since we're on a first-name basis now. "

" Oh. All right. " 

They remained silent for a while, the tension still present in the room. Sherlock chastised himself. That wasn't worthy of him, since when did he behave like a shy student?!

"John."

John Watson smiled at his young colleague's serious face, and imitated his tone, mocking him slightly.

"Sherlock. "

Sherlock was once again taken by surprise. The professor was teasing him? Who was this man? He delved back into his thoughts, constantly analysing their time together, trying to find a solution to the enigma that was his new referent.

"Sherlock? You look tired, are you all right? A first tutorial is always exhausting. "

" I, no, not for me, I don't feel tired, especially not for something as trivial as this. "

John's remark had stung Sherlock to the core, and brought out his habits. John pinched his lips and his gaze darkened.

"All right. Good to hear. We can make things more complex then. But let's be clear, Sherlock, I expect more participation from you during the tutorial, and I don't want any more little scenes like with Henry. Especially not with him. "

At the student's mention, Sherlock read an almost paternal desire for protection in the teacher's eyes. That Henry again! Sherlock had to find out why the teacher was so keen to spare this young man. He wanted to answer, but the professor had gathered his things and left without giving him time to answer.

"Good evening Sherlock. "

The teaching assistant found himself alone in the room among the corpses. Hell! Nothing had happened as he could have predicted, and it was something Sherlock was not used to.


End file.
